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<title>Waves by castleinthesky (choirboyharem)</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25420678">Waves</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/choirboyharem/pseuds/castleinthesky'>castleinthesky (choirboyharem)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fall Out Boy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, Masturbation, Unrequited Love</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 05:07:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>929</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25420678</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/choirboyharem/pseuds/castleinthesky</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The summertime smells like teen boy spunk.</p><p>It’s not much different from regular spunk. It’s not. It still smells vaguely like ammonia and copper and general musk, especially when it’s dry, but teen boy spunk meshes with general teen boy smell, which includes (but is not limited to): flat Coke, artificial sugar, heavy, spicy deodorant that still doesn’t cover up all the sweat, damp skin, and either the smell of agoraphobia (those smells clustered together, more intense) or grass (the fresh greenness working to cover up most of the rest of it).</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Waves</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>writing weird sensory jailbaby-longing porn at four in the morning? it’s definitely as likely as you think</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The summertime smells like teen boy spunk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not much different from regular spunk. It’s not. It still smells vaguely like ammonia and copper and general musk, especially when it’s dry, but teen boy spunk meshes with general teen boy smell, which includes (but is not limited to): flat Coke, artificial sugar, heavy, spicy deodorant that still doesn’t cover up all the sweat, damp skin, and either the smell of agoraphobia (those smells clustered together, more intense) or grass (the fresh greenness working to cover up most of the rest of it). </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In Patrick’s case, it’s closer to agoraphobia. That’s Patrick’s teen boy smell, which meshes with Patrick’s teen boy spunk. It sticks to the clothes he tosses to the floor with impunity, like his boxer shorts, crumpled near his eternally-unmade bed and thrown aside to rot among the rest of the filth that surrounds it. Patrick is aggressively ordinary in terms of single, heterosexual teenage boyhood, but with so many <em>little</em> things that make him outshine any other teenage boy that’s ever lived in a similarly disasterous bedroom. Among that disaster is stacks of CDs and records from every genre imaginable, crumpled papers full of melodies waiting to be brought to life, a guitar resting in a stand that’s sequestered from everything else, a computer desk that holds a laptop full of demos and mixes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s what makes his signature teen boy spunk stand out. And why Pete is borderline obsessed with it, creepy and sick and twisted in every way imaginable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Curled up in Patrick’s bed before the kid gets home from school, Pete fucks up into his own fist, mouth open as he suffocates in Patrick’s pillow. He can taste chunks of strawberry blond, limp and scattered across the pillowcase, the fabric worn and gentle. Long since damp with saliva from Patrick’s plush, sweet cherry-bomb lips parting in his sleep and the water from his shower that he took an hour prior. A shower where he’d <em>sing,</em> where it could curl around the shell of Pete’s ear in shades of red and gold and violet as he listened, waiting for Patrick to step out in every shade of pink. Then again, maybe he’d be torn, stuck between wishing he could see Patrick’s slick, glorious, unfamiliarly bare skin and wishing he could listen to his voice for hours, feeling it wash over his own skin in his waves. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s so fucking close. Pete dimly hears his own voice, <em>ha, ah, ah, fuck, ha, </em>individual syllables as he pants. He bites into the same pillow that he’s sure Patrick does whenever he’s jerking off. He curls into the same shape that he’s sure Patrick does whenever he’s jerking off. He twists his wrist and grips tight the way he hopes Patrick might, the way he wants him to, looking back at Pete with big, soft, trusting baby-blues, wide with excitement and fear and affection and curiosity, entirely virginal. Looking at Pete like he’s fucking great or something. Like Patrick’s happy to be jerking him off, sweet sixteen and barely ever been kissed, clumsy but just sure enough to know that Pete really, really likes it when he clenches his fist and flicks his wrist and he can feel Patrick’s teeth scrape over his neck, tender and gentle because he’s too scared to bite down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He will someday. Everyone always bites down on Pete’s neck someday—once they’re brave enough. Patrick will someday, if someday ever comes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Saturday ever comes. If Pete ever comes. He just has to replay the last demo he heard on Patrick’s computer in his head and inhale his teen boy smell one last time before his brain shutters on and off like a ViewMaster flipping through slides. Pete’s hand follows the jackknife jerk of his hips, his teeth sinking into the pillow and pulling the case taut as he spills onto Patrick’s rumpled, undone bed sheets. Twitching and breathless, eyes squeezed shut, Pete’s breath heaves, muffled into the pillowcase in his mouth. Summertime maintains itself easily just outside Patrick’s bedroom window, sounding like a quiet breeze, a lawnmower, and a mourning dove call, coming through in the clear despite the fact that Pete’s ears are still filled with cotton. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What clears them is hearing the slam of the front door downstairs. Pete’s eyes fly open, his mouth pulling away wetly from the pillowcase, feeling almost groggy. Simultaneously groggy and panicked. He can hear Patricia’s voice downstairs, the snap of a cabinet door, and then Patrick’s voice just as easily. Pete scrambles off the bed and grabs a discarded lump of a t-shirt off the floor, scrubbing at the bed sheets and his own hand. What Patrick doesn’t know won’t kill him. If it had the capacity to, Patrick would’ve been dug back up just to get shot all over again multiple times. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, well, the thing is, Patrick can never know. Not ever. Preserving Patrick’s teen boy spunk (and the spirit of what that is) means never getting too close. Never touching him, never looking too long, never infecting him with broken, miserable, sick, dirty, sad, crazy, bitter college-age boy spunk. Pete intends on keeping it the way it is. Just until Patrick grows out of it himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Patrick opens the bedroom door, a cookie in his mouth as he offers its twin to Pete, he is still utterly unaware of what summer smells like. To Patrick, it probably smells the same as it always has, but to Pete, it’s been permanently changed. And he’s the only one who can smell it. </span>
</p>
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